


Try to Remember

by hobbitdragon



Series: Witcher Fics [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Consensual Sex, Dragon sex, Geralt/Yen is a background ship throughout the fic, M/M, Male Lactation, Marathon Sex, Multi, Size Difference, Tea and Vea are married lesbians, Voyeurism, Wet & Messy, Xenophilia, dragon jizz is basically contact MDMA, implied future Geralt/Jaskier, in heat Borch, in heat Geralt, in heat everybody except Jaskier actually, mentions of Geralt/Wolf School Witchers, polyamorous ending, sex in the same room as other people, the egg hatches!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24675784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon
Summary: After the fighting is over and the mess cleaned up, Geralt finds out there is one more thing he can do for Borch, if Geralt is willing.
Relationships: Borch Three Jackdaws | Villentretenmert/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Witcher Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731811
Comments: 28
Kudos: 151
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	Try to Remember

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).



> This fic takes place in a slight AU where Yen and Geralt don’t have a horrible breakup conversation at the end of their adventure on the mountain. I just couldn’t make myself write Geralt getting fucked with that breakup fresh on his mind. Also, since Geralt isn’t drowning in self-loathing due to just having been dumped again, other things go differently too. So this fic is technically a canon divergence AU. 
> 
> CONTENT NOTES: please read the tags. You saw the tags for “altered mental states” and “dragon jizz is basically contact MDMA”? I mean those tags! The major decisions about/negotiation of sex happen when everyone is fully sober, and everything that happens is consensual. But if consciousness-altering substances getting mixed up with sex is not something you’ll enjoy reading, skip this fic.
> 
> Also, the beginning of the fic involves Geralt dealing with corpses in a canon-typical way.

“We could ask him,” Véa said in an undertone she clearly thought Geralt couldn’t hear. _“She_ clearly would not, but him…” 

When Geralt glanced over at the two women, they were gazing up at Borch (or Villentretenmerth, or whatever his name actually was) in silent communion. Geralt made himself turn away, pretending not to have noticed. Not that this could really stop Borch from knowing they’d been overheard, but maybe he’d be too distracted. Fucking mind-readers everywhere. 

Digging into his pocket, Geralt pulled out the cloth he used to clean his sword and set to it. A Witcher who didn’t care for his blades quickly became a dead Witcher, the instructors had said. Finish a fight, clean your sword. So Geralt cleaned his sword, sneaking glances over at the two women and the dragon. 

What were they talking about? What was it they could maybe ask him? As Geralt finished wiping away the last of the blood and checking the blade for nicks, he realized he felt a little envious of Téa and Véa. While at first Geralt had been baffled and concerned by their devotion to Borch, now he understood. An eccentric old man was one thing, but a _gold dragon..._

Geralt had seen many magical individuals and creatures during his long years of work. Yet even to him, dragons were a marvel. He had never even expected to see one from a distance, and he would have considered the possibility of _meeting_ one to be remote. 

Geralt knew that his capacity to feel and connect with the world as humans did was damaged, but even so, Borch’s massive frame and glittering scales evoked a breathless wonder and delight in Geralt. Jaskier’s songs often made it sound as though Geralt walked in fairy tales rather than working a dirty, painful, and thankless job. Looking at Borch and the egg and the dead green dragon, though, Geralt really did feel like he’d walked into a legend. 

He desperately wished that he could bring out his notebook and sketch Borch. The anatomy of a true dragon, not the paltry draconids Geralt was so often paid to exterminate, was a thing of beauty, and something to be recorded and remembered. While Geralt’s memory was good, it wasn’t eidetic, and he did not want to forget even the smallest element of this. And Eskel and the others deserved the most perfect recounting he could give when he saw them this winter. 

But there was a special kind of awfulness in being viewed as a specimen or a story rather than a person, as Geralt well knew. So he sheathed his sword, now clean, and with a sigh, went toward the entrance of the cave.   
  
There he found Yen. She had cleaned and sheathed her own blades, and now regarded the scattered corpses with distaste. 

“I imagine you know what to do with a host of bodies and don’t need me around to fix this,” she said coldly, and Geralt had to bite back an equally sharp response. She probably heard him think it anyway. 

“Yes, I do,” he said simply. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Probably even Yen could smell that several of the bodies had done what bodies often did after death, which was to release both bowels and bladder. The latrine smell of it, combined with the heavy miasma of blood, was intense.

But Borch couldn’t move the egg, and while the smell of rotting corpses would be unpleasant enough on its own, it would also attract necrophages. Geralt did not doubt that a gold dragon and two powerful warriors could handle a few ghouls, but it was not the sort of work to wish on any new parent, much less one already grieving the death of a peer--or lover, or friend, or whatever the green dragon had been to Borch. Geralt imagined that Borch must now be feeling something similar to what Geralt himself had felt upon seeing Remus laid out in Foltest’s morgue. When one was the last of a dying breed, the death of even a single one of your kin was a loss that went beyond just grief.

Clearing away the corpses and burning them properly was the least Geralt could do for Borch before departing, so Geralt would do it. 

“I will leave you to it, then,” Yen told him simply, but then lingered a moment longer, looking at him with a tender expression. This was so shocking that Geralt stared back, feeling pinned in place by that gaze. She approached, slowly, so that the smell of her perfume filled his mind for long seconds before their mouths touched. 

“You will run into me again, sometime,” she said gently when she pulled away. “Or I will find you.”

Then with the rush and roar of a portal she was gone. 

Part of Geralt wished to sit down and wallow. That was a better parting than Geralt had any right to expect from her, and a better one than most they’d had before, which only made her absence smart all the more, and made his cruel words to her seem even worse. Her absence felt like a wound as much as her presence did, just like always. 

But there were corpses to take care of, and wallowing in the midst of corpses would be a shameful and ridiculous display. Geralt felt embarrassed even at the thought of what Vesemir would say. 

So Geralt went through the pockets and weapons of the dead men, setting everything useful aside, because that too had been taught to him at Kaer Morhen: waste nothing that can be useful. Then Geralt piled the bodies downwind from the entrance of the cave and unleashed a long, sustained Igni until the heap caught and burned. The pooled blood and effluence he covered with dirt to keep it from stinking. 

When his work was done, he bundled the stack of blades together using a few of the mens’ belts, added their coin and other useful little goods to the purse at his hip, and went back to the cave. He needed to take proper leave of Borch. This had technically been a contract with Borch as his employer, and it was not professional to leave without saying farewell--quite apart from how much Geralt just wanted one last look at a creature that beautiful. 

The knowledge that Borch had for some reason picked _him_ for this task would warm him through many long, lonely years to come. 

Geralt found Borch in the middle of the same undertaking that Geralt had just completed. Borch had arranged the massive corpse of the green dragon into a position that was probably significant to dragons. Her wings had been folded closely at her sides, neck stretched out long, and Borch bent over her head, using the thumb-claw of one wing to trace a shining sigil onto her forehead. For a moment the light of it was too bright to even look at--and then the body slowly dissolved, vanishing into the air without even leaving a scent behind. 

Handy, Geralt thought. If humans could do that to their own dead, his job would be a lot easier. 

Without the corpse of the mother dragon beside it, the egg’s brightness was even more obvious in the dim light of the cave. Its inner luminescence pulsed as Geralt watched. Téa and Véa seated themselves on either side of it, and Borch curled himself down into the space left behind by the green dragon, close to the egg. 

“I came to take my leave,” Geralt told them regretfully.

But Borch only tilted his great head and regarded Geralt for a moment in silence. 

“Tell me, how much do Witchers actually know of dragons?” Borch asked at last. “In particular, about their eggs.”

At this Geralt looked away, grimacing in his embarrassment. 

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said before,” he grumbled. “About gold dragons not being--I’m sorry. Clearly I don’t know as much as I thought.”

“Thank you, the apology is gracious of you, but I did not mean my question as a reproach,” Borch said. “It was an earnest inquiry. What do you know of dragon eggs?”

“Nothing,” Geralt admitted. “Other than what I learned here with you, that they cannot be moved without killing the infant within. So I assume you three will be here a while?”

“Just so,” Borch agreed. “But there is...another problem. One whose nature prompts me to wonder if I might prevail upon you to help me once more.”

Geralt opened his mouth to agree automatically when Borch stopped him. 

“Ah, no--wait until you know what you’re agreeing to. At the foot of the mountain I could not be honest with you. But this requires the full truth.”

His haunches shifted, moving his weight from his belly onto one hip, and his long tail wrapped in a possessive loop around the egg and the two warriors. Uncertain what to do with himself, Geralt took a seat on a rock nearby. 

“Dragon eggs not only cannot be moved, they must be...properly incubated. Without the correct care, even now this egg could still die. My body is already responding to its need. I should have been here earlier, as I am in fact the father of this egg, but I had no idea Myrgtabraake was gravid when we dallied together. It was not until I heard the stories of her behavior here that I realized what a position I had left her in.” He shook his head regretfully. “I wish I knew why Myrgtabraake did not tell me that she was soon to lay. Perhaps she had other plans for the incubation, which subsequently went awry.”

Nodding, Geralt wondered what the problem was. Perhaps a nesting dragon required certain rare foods while it heated its egg? Maybe that food would require a hunt only a fellow dragon or a Witcher could safely undertake?

“Humans are capable of reproduction no matter their emotional state, and once pregnant, their young mature to term no matter the distress of either of their parents,” Borch went on, looking fixedly at Geralt even as Geralt’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But it is not so with dragons. A dragon may _only_ be born in pleasure. Much harm has already been done to this egg by its mother’s death and all the violence which has transpired here, so it will require much more than the usual attention in order to ensure it hatches.”

“Born in pleasure, huh?” Squinting up at Borch, Geralt wondered if his imagination was running away with him or if Borch was actually implying what Geralt thought he was implying. “Get to the point,” he demanded, heart beating a little too fast under his armor. He wondered if Borch could hear that. 

“I am going into heat,” Borch said. 

Well, Geralt thought, that was both plenty direct and a stunning confirmation of Geralt’s most prurient thoughts. His eyes went wide. 

Borch merely twitched his tail like a contented cat. “It is what happens to any dragon who spends any length of time in the presence of an egg, a response designed to help...incubate the egg in the correct emotional experiences. In some circumstances, the pleasure of a single parent alone would be enough. With this egg, however, exposed as it has been to so much death...my being with a mate would be better.”

“You are the only living dragon I have ever seen in my life, so I don’t think I can help you,” Geralt admitted, wishing it weren’t true. “If you know of another nearby, I will happily go ask them to help--” 

Borch waved his tail at this, the same way a human would wave a hand to stop a silly line of thought. “You misunderstand, which is my fault. I am used to altering what I say to account for delicate human sensibilities, and it is hampering my meaning. I wish to know if _you_ will be my mate for the duration of this heat.”

A sweaty tingle went down Geralt’s spine. It took a lot to really surprise him these days, but _this--_

He glanced at the two women, who looked back at him with unreadable eyes. 

“Don’t wanna be offensive, but wouldn’t they--” Geralt started to ask.

“We are married,” Véa interrupted, and Geralt blinked in surprise. “To each other. Such marriages are allowed in Zerrikania, and we take our vows seriously. And beyond that, while we love him, it is not _that_ kind of love. For the fealty we swore to him, we wish to help, but acting in such a way would be stressful for us both--and that would ruin the egg rather than helping it.”

Geralt had known things were different in Zerrikania and even in Nilfgaard than they were in the Northern Kingdoms where Geralt walked the Path. Even so, hearing two women admit aloud that they were _married_ _to each other_ sent a thrill of vicarious fear through Geralt. After so many decades of secrecy about his own inclinations, it was automatic to be afraid when hearing such things acknowledged out loud. 

Despite that, images were forming in the back of Geralt’s mind of _mating_ and _dragons_ and _himself,_ and his traitorous dick already knew _exactly_ how it felt about the prospect and was perking up. He was grateful to be sitting down. Not that that would conceal his response from Borch in any meaningful way, but it would at least keep his dick out of sight of the women.

“If you’re married, can’t you two just do it with each other while he...” he pressed, now a little desperate. 

“We can and we will,” Véa replied. “And maybe our pleasure and his together would be enough. But we wish to take no chances with this egg.”

A silence fell. Geralt didn’t know how to express any of what he was currently thinking or feeling. It was bad enough being a Witcher, spat upon and cursed everywhere he went, without being labeled a sodomite as well. He had seen what happened to men viewed that way. The closest he ever came to admitting what he wanted with men was with male brothel workers who _advertised_ such services and would not judge. Among Witchers, dalliances between men were expected and normal--who else was there to fuck during the years of training or the long winter months? And with Yennefer, she had read it in his mind and thus negated the need for him to say it out loud. 

Perhaps the same was true here, and Borch could already see what Geralt was thinking. Perhaps he already knew that Geralt would tolerate--no, that he _wanted_ the feeling of being overpowered and taken. Téa and Véa didn’t seem shocked by the idea of a male dragon with a male Witcher either. But even so, finding the words to say it galled Geralt.

Geralt looked pleadingly up at Borch, silently begging him not to force Geralt to have to confess out loud how willing he was. But Borch simply waited. 

“That’s--” Geralt started to say, and when his voice broke a little on the word, he stopped and cleared his throat. “I am...able to help you, yes.”

Borch smiled. It was a strange, wondrous expression to see on a face that large--the pleased narrowing of eyes the size of Geralt’s fists and the curling of lips the length of his torso. His heart fluttered under his armor. 

Which was when it occurred to Geralt that the necessary first step in all this was to remove said armor. But as soon as he started undoing the buckles of his sword harness, Borch’s tail lifted and laid over his hands, stopping him. Geralt looked up into those deep eyes again. 

“I appreciate the great honor you do me by offering your willingness in this way,” Borch said gently. “But there is more you must know in order to consent to this. There are known to be some consequences to exposure to the fluids of dragons,” Borch said delicately, or as delicately as one could from a ribcage the size of a cow. 

When Borch moved his tail away again, Geralt went right on with his harness. If this was really happening, which it seemed like it was, then he didn’t much care what the consequences were. Short of agonizing death, and maybe even including that, it would be worth it. 

“Those being?” Geralt asked as he started in on his armor. “And how many humans have even fucked dragons, that there are known consequences?”

Téa and Véa gave him a narrow-eyed look and Geralt realized how silly that question must sound to them. They had clearly made some sort of pledge of fealty to a dragon, and if they had done so even as married women, then surely there must have been others before them who hadn’t been constrained in such a way. 

“Look, this is not something they lectured about in my training,” Geralt muttered. “So what should I expect?”

“Feelings of euphoria that can last up to a week after contact,” Borch said, and at this Geralt’s eyebrows went up. At least to him, that was the opposite of a problem--that sounded more like something Geralt would pay good money to acquire from an apothecary and share with Eskel over the winter. 

“Others grow temporary scales which fall out after a few months,” Borch went on, and that was admittedly less good. But people already expected Witchers to be freaks of nature, so even if the scales grew on Geralt’s face, he supposed he’d cope. “They don’t usually leave scars,” Borch explained. “And finally, most people lactate.”

At this Geralt stopped his unbuckling and stared up at the dragon. “Your species doesn’t even nurse. Why would exposure to your fluids cause lactation?”

Watching a dragon shrug was an interesting exercise in draconid anatomy. 

“Some arcane interaction between my magic and human biology, one assumes. The why does not matter so much as the fact that it will probably happen.”

“I’m a Witcher, not a human. So really, we have _no_ idea what will happen to me.”

“Yes. Hence why it is important that you are aware of the risks before we begin.”

Given how serious Borch was being about this, and the fact that any regret or distress Geralt felt about this might literally kill Borch’s child, Geralt finally paused to give this the consideration it deserved. 

Over the span of his life he had, of course, encountered a variety of women in various stages of breastfeeding. Those who had actively nursed in his presence were rare, as they tended to believe that his mere presence would dry up their milk or even curse their babes. But the smell of milkstains inside someone’s clothing was difficult for a Witcher’s nose to miss, so he knew the scent and found it pleasing. There were even certain curses and other creature essences which could induce lactation--he had twice encountered it as a curse used against men to humiliate them, and once someone had used manticore saliva in a woman’s food in an attempt to besmirch her status as a virgin before her wedding. 

Geralt didn’t care about any of that. He had no virginity left to besmirch, and no one to care about its status even if he had. Even if it were to somehow permanently change the shape of his chest--he had occasionally overheard brothel workers discussing how much larger their breasts had grown as a result of breastfeeding--that didn’t matter either. He already looked like a freak, so one more freakish trait could hardly make his life any worse. And as for the simple logistics, he could bind linen over his chest for a few weeks if needed. Even if something went wrong and he developed mastitis somehow, which seemed unlikely given that Witchers were not prone to infection, he knew cures for that. 

“How long does it usually last in humans?” he asked, since that would dictate how much laundry he would be doing in the future. “The milk, I mean,” he clarified.

“Several weeks,” Borch said, still watching Geralt with a steady gaze. 

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, and then went right on undressing. “Don’t care about that, then. If it were years I might have second thoughts.” 

Even then he’d still do this. He’d just be grumpy about it later. But a chance such as this was so rare that it was less than once in a lifetime, whereas an absorbent undervest could be made by any tailor. 

Téa and Véa looked away as Geralt started in on his breeches. He stacked his armor carefully to the side where it would not get damaged, and neatly piled up his clothes. Once Geralt stood naked, however, he wasn’t sure what to do. He was already more than half hard. 

The great glimmering head leaned down to where Geralt was, big nostrils flaring as Borch scented him. The tip of Borch’s nose slid up Geralt’s thigh, just past his cock, which bounced a little against the scaly lip. Geralt held his hands away, unsure if he was allowed to touch someone so beautiful. It was one thing if Borch wanted to use Geralt for his pleasure, and another if Geralt presumed this was an equal relationship and thus he had any privileges in return. 

“I would like it very much if you touched me,” Borch said gently, and Geralt remembered all over again that Borch, too, could read his mind just as Yen could. “This is about pleasure for both of us. If it pleases you to touch me, then do so.”

With shaking hands, Geralt laid his palms on the broad muzzle. The scales were beautifully warm, like something that had lain out in the sun all day, and smooth as glass. Geralt traced along the nostrils and lips, feeling the shape of them and the movement of Borch’s breath. Each exhalation gusted hot air that smelled like a foundry over Geralt’s bare chest and collarbones. His nipples tightened. Just below Borch’s chin, Geralt’s cock rose the rest of the way, standing eagerly to attention in response to the nearness of the massive body. Even down on his belly like this, Borch’s size was overwhelming. The shifting of the tremendous shoulder muscles under the shining skin made Geralt’s heart speed up. 

Small noises behind him suggested that Téa and Véa were undressing as well. Geralt made himself not turn around to look. He hadn’t been invited to do that, and they were married. He’d keep his eyes closed if he had to, even if it meant losing the sight of Borch. 

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, breathless. 

A whole variety of images went through his mind, then, based on dissections of draconids. Like so many bored young Witchers, when he’d been sent to cull the local population of forktails and wyverns around Kaer Morhen, he’d done full dissections. So he’d seen what lesser draconids kept hidden away in their genital slits. But draconids experienced erection rather like humans did, and none of the beasts he’d carved up for parts or for knowledge had been excited at the time, so he had no idea what even a lesser draconid’s parts looked like when they were in a state to be used. And anyway, comparing Borch to a forktail or wyvern was ridiculous. He was in a whole other class altogether. Which meant Geralt had no idea what to expect. 

Perhaps seeing this thought in Geralt’s mind, Borch pushed himself up onto all fours--and revealed himself to be every bit as rampant as Geralt was. 

The erection now hanging from Borch’s loins was a deep, florid red, blood running close beneath the surface of the thin skin. It started with a finely-tapered tip that flared into a heart-shaped crown, studded below that by various bumps and ripples that made Geralt go hot all over to look at. It was easily the size of Geralt’s entire forearm, which was intimidating enough, but that was still comparatively far smaller than Geralt had feared. It hung heavy from a nest of smaller cilia-like shapes, all of them everted in a mound from the scales of the lower belly. The whole protrusion dripped a thick fluid onto the floor, sticky and glistening in the noonday sun coming in from the mouth of the cave. 

The fact that Geralt would be allowed to touch that had him almost ready to go off like an overzealous teenager. 

Borch let out a little huff of amusement. 

“I was worried, at first, that you might view the idea of us together in this shape to be grotesque,” Borch said. “A baseless fear, I now see. That is good--your eagerness will be good for the egg. And, of course, for me.”

Cheeks itching with embarrassment at this, Geralt ducked his chin and looked away. But he smiled a little too. It was pleasant to hear Borch say that Geralt’s eagerness was, for once, a good thing; his high libido and the intensity of his desire had several times been seen as threatening by workers in the brothels he visited. He had learned over the decades to hide all external signs of it except for the most obvious one. 

“As for what I would like,” Borch said, “I desire whatever will please you the most to do. Our mutual pleasure is the goal, not just mine.”

“Right,” Geralt replied, half to himself. “Right. Well, then. Let me…”

He moved slowly along Borch’s side, trailing his hand over the metallic scales, hesitant lest Borch try to stop him. But Borch only settled back onto his haunches and pushed up onto his wrists, thus leaving his belly and cock open for Geralt to touch. The scent of it wafted up to Geralt--metallic, like blood, yet richer and stranger and also somehow floral. It made his mouth water. 

The scales on Borch’s belly were smaller, creating a smoother, softer skin texture that Geralt was already imagining moving over his back. And when Geralt ran a cautious finger down the shaft itself, he found it silky-slick to the touch. There was no foreskin, its texture instead more as though the entire shaft was made of the same spongy material as the head of a human cock. It twitched. Geralt’s own body echoed the movement. 

He could barely breathe, and it had nothing to do with the heat this close to Borch. The options were so overwhelming that Geralt decided to just start where he was, with his hands. He ran them up and down, thrilling when this got a deep rumble from the huge ribcage above him. More of the strange fluid seeped from what looked like small openings along the shaft, wetting first his hands and then his wrists. A trickle dripped off his left elbow.

“It will take very little to make me spend,” Borch admitted. “With an egg so close, I am primed to do it at the least provocation.”

“Like a Witcher, then,” Geralt laughed. “Most of us are like that all the time. Hair-trigger.”

The sound of a dragon laughing would stay with Geralt to the end of his days. So too would the memory of the laugh shuddering into a warbling growl as the enormous shaft in his hands jolted, stiffened, and then released a great flow of pale, slightly iridescent fluid all over Geralt. 

A wave of dizziness went over him, the world seeming to suddenly tilt several degrees to the left, but he shook his head, too busy with what he was doing to be distracted. When the flow stopped, it had coated most of his chest and belly and was running in slow rivulets down his calves. In a moment he’d be standing in a small puddle. 

“I want this inside me,” Geralt said helplessly, and from behind him came a snort, from Téa by sound. He gestured at them without looking. “Don’t judge me. You are not allowed to judge me.”

“She is not passing judgment,” Véa denied. “Only wondering how you will fit something that size without hurting yourself and wrecking things for the egg.”

Admittedly that was a valid question, but Geralt wasn’t about to let that stop him. He was so warm and relaxed now (when had that happened?) that he didn’t think it would be an issue, really. And, well. Sometimes during winters at Kaer Morhen, he and the others got bored. And bored Witchers got up to all sorts of maybe-inadvisable activities. Once he’d taken Eskel and Lambert at the same time, and while it had smarted a bit fitting them both, it had been great fun. Besides, Geralt told himself, the head of this particular cock was so prettily tapered that it would ease him right open. 

That decided him. Even if he failed, he wouldn’t regret the attempt, and if he succeeded then he’d have a memory to stroke himself to for decades to come. 

Given their relative sizes, Geralt figured it would be easiest for both of them if he attempted this while standing with his back to Borch’s belly. So Geralt turned--keeping his eyes conscientiously away from the two women, whom he saw out of the corner of his eye were naked and lying side by side--and backed himself into place. At first the long shaft slipped and slid between his legs, pressing up over his back and then down between his thighs. But after some fumbling, he got the tip situated at his opening. 

No sooner had the tip just barely breached him, however, than the room started to spin and he stumbled. Thankfully he stumbled forward so he didn’t impale himself. 

Borch lifted the wrist of one wing, holding it up for Geralt to steady himself against. 

“Ah. It’s starting to take effect now. Takes longer for you than it does most humans.”

“This is what you consider a long time?” Geralt demanded, shocked. “We’ve barely started.”

“For most humans, the effects are instantaneous,” Borch explained. 

For a minute Geralt had to simply stand and breathe. He waited with interest as both the colors and scents of everything intensified. The ironmongery smell of Borch filled every space in Geralt’s skull, but even through it, traces of the arousal of the two women came to him. Beside those scents and the faint blood and gore outside was a bright, strange smell that could only be the egg itself.

Normally, Geralt thought, this acuity would have given him an almighty headache. But now he was too relaxed and warm for it to bother him. Or perhaps whatever chemicals or magic were at work were dulling pain faster than he could feel it. 

His cock was still hard though, and the egg was still waiting. So he situated himself again, this time steadied against Borch’s wing, and started the careful rocking that would join them together. The hot, tapered shape against his entrance reminded him of the tongues of his fellow Witchers, the only other thing this slick and sweet that had ever touched him there before. 

When the widest point of the crown slipped into him at last, Geralt came almost reflexively, a little ripple of response half to the stimulation and half to his own sense of accomplishment. Above him, Borch let out a rumble of satisfaction too, the massive shaft jerking inside Geralt, and then Geralt shuddered as he was suddenly wet and full inside.

With his entrance so effectively plugged, the only place for the seed to go was into Geralt, and the effects of it were immediate and stunning. Geralt could feel _every_ shining scale under his palm, every little eddy of the air around him as Borch shed heat and breathed deep, moving over every little hair on Geralt’s skin. And the deliciousness of that big, inhuman shape inside him couldn’t even be described. 

As Geralt blinked and gasped and shivered, knees shaking, it suddenly occurred to him that Destiny _had_ smiled upon him after all. So much of his life since he had been abandoned at Kaer Morhen had been pain and violence that it had become automatic to believe that misery was all he was meant for, all he was _capable_ of. Yet now it just seemed so obvious that this was untrue--no one meant only for agony and death would have been chosen by a gold dragon, nor even _capable_ of feeling like this. 

“Ahh,” Borch purred. “At last. You really are very resistant to it, though whether spiritually or by simple strength of your liver, I do not know.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said, which didn’t in any way express his feelings. But then, what would? How could he _possibly_ communicate the sudden revelation that while Destiny had given him a hard life, it had also given him lovers and friends and a daughter waiting for him somewhere and even _this?_ All of that was there for him if only he could allow himself to receive it. Geralt had no language to describe the sudden lightness of being which he now felt--as though someone had opened a door into his soul and swept out all the cobwebs. 

Well. For now, at least, he didn’t need to do anything with the knowledge except to have it. His more immediate future mostly contained more orgasms, if he only allowed himself to receive those, too. 

Easing himself further and further down certainly granted him that. The pleasure of it ebbed and flowed so naturally that he lost track of what was or wasn’t a climax. By the time he finally seated himself on Borch’s hips his success came as no surprise, because Geralt was so relaxed he felt like he could have taken anything. Instead there was only a quiet kind of pride, intensified by Borch’s exclamations of delight. The massive size of Borch’s body all around and inside Geralt really drove home the reality of it all: Geralt had well and truly encountered a gold dragon and was now engaging in _very_ enjoyable sex with it. 

Téa and Véa were clearly enjoying themselves too. Their quiet words to each other in their own language became the backdrop to everything else, occasionally punctuated by cries from one or both of them. 

Some unnamed amount of time later, though, Geralt realized he would need to remove himself. Geralt was getting rather too full inside and needed to rid himself of the excess. There wasn’t going to be any romantic way to do it, so Geralt just eased himself off and then walked, dripping freely, over to the back end of the cave. 

There, he found several small pools of water which he’d smelled from afar. He crouched in the sand nearby to let himself drain before cleaning himself off in the smaller pool. 

Then he went back for more. 

He’d just gotten himself happily reseated and was really getting down to business (which was earning him these _incredible_ deep-chested trills of enjoyment from Borch) when Jaskier stumbled into the cave. 

“Geralt?” he called, and then came into view. “Where is every--wuh...oh dear gods.”

All at once Geralt became aware of what this scene must look like. He didn’t _care_ very much, because he was feeling far too good to be ashamed of himself when it was only Jaskier. But Geralt did suddenly have a moment of self-consciousness imagining his pale, small, scarred body underneath this massive golden beast. 

For several long seconds Jaskier stood wide-eyed, staring mostly at Borch, though his eyes then clearly flicked down to Geralt and sideways to Téa and Véa, who covered themselves with their clothing. 

“I see you found the dragon,” Jaskier said weakly. Then he rallied himself, rising to his full height and planting his hands on his hips. “I say, I’m glad your, uh--your large friend here apparently rescued the girls, but it’s really too bad he couldn’t save your employer! And anyway, it’s very rude of you to come have an orgy up here and not invite me! Unless--” he scanned the room again. “Yennefer’s not here, is she?”

Borch laughed. The reverberation of it was so great that Geralt shook and clutched at a wing as he shuddered into another uncontrollable climax. His eyes watered and he gasped for breath as Borch spoke. 

“No, you are quite safe from the Sorceress,” Borch said. “And I am safe as well, despite my jaunt down the mountainside.”

Jaskier’s eyes went absolutely huge as he recognized the voice inside his head. 

“You’re--no! You’re? No. You’re...” he stammered, and then sat down abruptly on a nearby rock. 

“Yes,” Borch said simply, “I am.” Then he turned his head down to look at Geralt. “Will it be acceptable to you if he stays, or should we send him off?”

Glancing over at Jaskier to see what he thought about this, it took Geralt a second to realize that Borch had spoken solely to him, in his mind, and so Jaskier had no idea what had been said. 

Distantly, Geralt knew that if he were...sober, or not having the experience he was having now, that he would have wanted Jaskier sent away. Geralt grew lamentably attached to people who showed the least sign of favor towards him, and after twenty years, he was terribly, miserably attached to Jaskier even despite Jaskier’s many faults. When Geralt was sober, he knew himself to be a dangerous monster whose affections were a detriment of everyone unfortunate enough to be the object of them. When he was sober, he knew that he had worked very hard to keep himself away from Jaskier, whose affections moved in every direction like the wind and were just as inconstant--and that he had also worked hard to keep Jaskier away from _him,_ because he was a vile and desolate creature who could only pollute what he touched. 

But now, when everything felt so delicious and it was so obvious that Geralt’s normal mode of thinking was the wrong one...he realized that Jaskier was no longer a defenseless youth too stupid to know what he was getting himself into. Instead, Jaskier was an adult with two decades of experience of love and life. He was still very foolish sometimes, especially in his continued choices to sleep with married people, but he had over and over again seen through Geralt’s increasingly desperate attempts to drive him away and seemed to still like traveling with Geralt regardless. 

Besides, Geralt suddenly realized, if he really wanted to drive Jaskier away, all Geralt needed to do was to tell him about what had actually happened at Blaviken. Then Jaskier would understand why Geralt didn’t deserve human company. 

Right now though, that, too, seemed distant and unnecessary. Right now Geralt was absolutely filled to the brim with cock, and that fact didn’t seem to offend Jaskier, and Geralt was right on the verge of coming again. 

“Stay,” Geralt told him. The way Jaskier beamed provided the last tiny bit of stimulation Geralt needed to come, so he rolled right into another shuddering, breathless peak with that sight in his eyes. 

When Geralt came to his senses, Borch was patiently explaining the risks of coming into contact with any of his fluids. Jaskier seemed delighted at the prospect right up till the bit about lactation and scales, at which point he made a face and shook his head. 

“A lovely offer, but I think I’ll keep my distance. Is it gauche to take my pants off, though? I’m going to take off my pants.”

More than just the pants came off. Geralt somehow contrived to feel both surprised and unsurprised when Jaskier was already halfway to hard by the time he was naked. He seemed determined to join in the fun, albeit from a safe distance. 

Geralt had seen Jaskier naked often enough and hard often enough (though rarely at the same time) that the trim muscles and carpet of body hair were nothing new. It was still satisfying to finally get a real look at Jaskier’s impressive (for a human) endowment as he took it in hand. Geralt had also, of course, heard and smelled Jaskier masturbating often enough over the last two decades that the familiar waft of Jaskier’s sex and the ways his breathing changed when he was aroused had a comforting familiarity to them. Normally Geralt joined in alongside when Jaskier went at himself, because that was considered a companionable thing to do among Witchers. But he suspected Jaskier had no idea how often he’d had company in pleasuring himself, or how clearly audible and smellable his reactions were to a Witcher. 

Jaskier sent a few wistful glances over at the women before Véa sharply told him to keep his eyes to himself. To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier complied--by keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt and Borch instead. 

The hunger of his gaze was easier to take when Geralt was in this state. Geralt had known from their first meeting that Jaskier was attracted to him, because Jaskier was nothing like subtle even in his flirtations with men. Oh, he hid behind plausible deniability with his language choices, and protestations that his ‘college education’ made his behavior ‘eccentric’ when his attentions were not well-received. But he was blatant about his interest no matter its object, and Geralt had been one such object for two decades. For most of that time he had simply attempted to ignore the longing looks and repeated offers. 

Once this experience with Borch was over, though, he realized with some puzzlement, he might as well take Jaskier up on his offers. Someday.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Téa and Véa dipped their hands into Borch’s fluids at one point so that they, too, could keep up with their lord and have the experience with him. Jaskier brought Geralt water and food and fetched their belongings up from the mountainside. When Jaskier grew too tired (and too chafed) to continue joining in the festivities, he played on his lute to provide ‘mood music,’ which seemed to amuse Borch greatly. 

When Geralt himself grew too sore inside, he took Borch between his thighs. By the time his accelerated healing and inhuman libido had taken care of the problem, Jaskier was asleep deeper in the cave. 

On day two, Geralt realized something was different that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Mostly he was distracted by the haze of heady feelings and the frankly incredible number of orgasms he was having--not once in his life had anyone ever managed to get him off this much, and he was having the astonishing experience of actually being _worn out_ sexually. For the first time ever, at the age of ninety. He loved it.

At just before dawn on day three, when he’d come yet again because Borch had nuzzled him awake and licked him open with the biggest tongue it had ever been Geralt’s pleasure to encounter, Geralt finally figured out what was different: he had stopped being afraid. Of Jaskier, of Borch, of Téa and Véa, of himself, of any part of the situation. Normally he only felt this way at Kaer Morhen in the winters--and even then only rarely. His memories of Kaer Morhen were too fraught, and his relationships with Lambert and Vesemir too complex. And since the pogrom...it was difficult to relax when every room held memories of the dead and so many places bore evidence of the destruction. 

Now, though--now he wasn’t afraid. He was safe and happy and enjoying himself. As Geralt collapsed onto his side, loose-limbed and almost overheated with the proximity to Borch’s radiantly-warm face, he wondered: was this what Jaskier felt like all the time? Did Jaskier just...not hate himself? Not spend every waking moment guarding against attack? 

Geralt understood, in a distant sort of way, that other people didn’t feel as he did. But that knowledge had always been theoretical, like the descriptions of the monsters that inhabited the lands beyond the Blue Mountains. He could sort of picture those beasts, forming a muzzy image based on beasts he had already encountered, but that was a far cry from seeing a thing in the flesh. Or in this case, _feeling_ something in his flesh. His body was just so _soft,_ now. Not that his muscles had changed in any way, because they hadn’t, but a pervasive tension he had long since ceased to even notice had left him. Its absence was indescribable. 

As the first morning light turned the deep darkness of the cave into soft greys, Geralt rolled over to let Borch carefully mount him again. The dragon had to exercise exquisite care about his movements, but he could, they had discovered, take Geralt this way if he was slow about it. Geralt relaxed, breathing deeply, and realized that he now found it easier to let in _Borch,_ despite his massive size, than it normally was to admit a much-smaller human cock. Partly it was that Geralt was better-stretched now than he probably ever had been in his whole life before, but partly it was that he wasn’t bracing against intrusion. Even when he truly wanted to be fucked, it was hard not to be tense. Now, though...

Now he was...soft. Pliable. Peaceful, if such a word could be applied to such a state of heightened arousal and awareness. A sensation of pure hedonistic ease ran through him as the crown slipped into him. 

He was sweating again in the heat, his chest and sides wet as his spine relaxed and he let out a long sigh. 

“Ahh,” Borch purred above him. “My dear, that is not sweat. Take a look.”

Muzzily, Geralt pushed himself up, blinking around the cave. Téa and Véa were asleep near the entrance, curled into one another with their swords laid out beside them. Jaskier lay against the other wall, snoring gently. And when Geralt reached down a hand to the slick dampness of his chest...

“Oh,” he said, as the white fluid on his hand and the sweet smell he’d been half-aware of for some time now at last registered in his brain. _“Oh!”_ he whimpered, as Borch glided deeper into him, the way now absurdly smooth. 

Milk. He’d produced milk.

Days ago Geralt had mocked Yennefer for wanting a child. He had seen people who treated their children as props for their own faltering self-esteem, seen the destruction that wrought. He refused to be such a man, and moreover refused also to be yet _another_ Witcher who took a beautiful and worthy child and fed it into the meat-grinder of Witcher training. Even without the Trial of the Grasses, he had no stomach for the cruelty with which he had been raised--the beatings, the exhaustion, the shouting and insults and the thousand forms of pain which shaped hopeful boys into brutal men. He had hated too the idea of Yennefer’s rage and grief demanding love and worship from someone who could not refuse her. Geralt loved her, and he _wanted_ someone who would demand the best of him and accept no less, but with a child... 

As he smelled his own milk, felt the way his chest ached, Geralt found his thoughts wandering to his child of surprise--too old for nursing by far, and yet...

Geralt came with that thought in his mind. And then came twice more, because that was simply how things went with Borch. He lost his train of thought.

Half an hour later, as the morning sun illuminated the rich green spread of the pines along the mountainside, the egg cracked. Borch very politely removed Geralt from his lap, retracted his own cock so that only the slick and semen all over his belly showed that anything had happened at all, and went over to the egg. Téa and Véa hastily dressed, kneeling near Borch’s head. 

Jaskier woke from the movement and fuss, saw what was happening, and thoughtfully brought Geralt his cloak. He wrapped it around Geralt’s shoulders, not seeming to notice the white sticky rivulets running down Geralt’s belly, and then sat down by his side to watch the hatching. 

Borch did not help the infant, merely letting out a low, reassuring sort of rumble as a segment of the shell separated and the leathery membrane inside bulged. A few minutes later, a sharp spike at the end of a tiny snout burst forth, quickly followed by needle-sharp little claws and then a whole, shining little face. It was a pale greenish-gold like sunlight through new spring leaves.

Borch’s massive face lay on the ground beside it, breathing heat over the little body still squirming its way out of the shell. Peeping little cries half-muffled by the shell pierced Geralt’s heart as the hatchling withdrew. It was, he thought, bracing itself--and then more cracks appeared along the sides and the whole thing broke open, revealing a tiny pot-bellied body glowing with its own inner light. 

So the infant had been what gave the egg its strange glow. Borch edged his face closer, purring so loud it made Geralt dizzy, until his muzzle touched the little creature. It squirmed and nuzzled back. 

Jaskier was clearly about to start cooing, and Geralt had just barely the presence of mind to nudge him away with one shoulder. Jaskier thankfully took the hint and they retreated further into the cave to give the family privacy with their newborn. 

This also meant that Geralt could wash himself again. This would, he realized, be the last time cleaning himself in this cave. Soon he would have to depart. His part in this story was done. 

“I didn’t expect it to be so cute somehow,” Jaskier said as Geralt knelt in the shallow pool. It was already thoroughly mixed with dragon fluids after three days of such washing. But it would at least get him clean enough to don his clothes without being sticky. “I mean babies of any species are always so much cuter than you’re prepared for. But Borch himself is so stately, you know? It’s hard to picture him as a big-eyed pup like that.”

“Hatchling,” Geralt corrected. At Jaskier’s look of bafflement, Geralt explained, “The word for a baby draconid is ‘hatchling’.”

“Oh wonderful, that’s much easier to rhyme,” Jaskier agreed amicably. He had gotten much better at accepting Geralt’s corrections over the years, though he was still entirely too prone to altering the truth for the sake of ‘romance’ or just plain profit. “Few words rhymes with ‘pup’ beyond ‘tup,’ and while there was quite a lot of tupping going on, I think the noble tale of a knight aiding a dragon in the quest to protect his egg gets muddied by the addition of that much cock. I mean you and I understand that it was a noble undertaking _despite_ the sheer quantity of semen, but your average listener would trip upon those details.”

Geralt was too warm and blissful to argue. Besides, he didn’t want this particular part of the adventure made into a song, and protesting would probably only give Jaskier ideas for turning this into a romantic ballad somehow. If Jaskier did that, Lambert would never let Geralt live it down.

Which was when Geralt ran into an unforeseen problem: he could hear Borch’s purring, the hatchling’s delighted cries at greeting its father for the first time, and Téa and Véa quietly murmuring to it--and all those family sounds together seemed to be inspiring Geralt to produce milk. Every time he splashed his chest, some hitherto-unnoticed set of subtle muscles responded to the group in the other chamber and another trickle made its way out of him.

After a solid minute of rinsing and then needing to rinse again, Geralt just accepted it, sighing as he closed his eyes. Jaskier hummed and muttered to himself, already composing something, but Geralt focused beyond that to the chirping of the newborn and the deep rumble of delight from Borch. A thumb stroking absently over Geralt’s nipple did the rest, chest tightening and sending another gush down his belly and thighs. 

The image came to him again of a little head there, pale shining hair leaned against his arm as a pink mouth took his nipple. He didn’t know what the princess of Cintra looked like, but rumor had told him she was much like her mother: pale and blonde and small. In an almost dreamlike way the image grew in his mind of a pert little nose, light lashes, soft green eyes. How wonderful a child like that would look leaned against his shoulder, cradled against his chest. How right. 

The milk flowed until there wasn’t any more. With a soft kind of regret, Geralt washed it away into the waters. 

When he reentered the main cave, he found the newborn in Véa’s arms, curled up with its snout under her jaw, clearly asleep. At the sight something pulled inside his chest, but because of the ease in his body now, it didn’t hurt. It was just--tenderness, and wistfulness, seeing a family together like that. He breathed into the feeling and it eased, leaving only pride at the part he had played in this story. 

For the first time in days he donned clothes. He found that he did not wish to put on his armor and swords but he did it anyway, padding the chest with some of the folded scraps of cloth he kept in the bottom of his pack. They were thankfully clean, though he thought they would smell of milk soon enough. 

When he looked like a Witcher again (even if he didn’t _feel_ like one right now) he approached the family on careful feet, unsure how to say goodbye. 

He didn’t have to. Borch nodded at him, regal face softened by such obvious love. 

“Thank you,” he said, sounding almost reverent. “You have given me two very great gifts--your trust in me, and the birth of my daughter.”

A daughter, Geralt thought in surprise. A girl, like--

“It has been my honor,” Geralt replied with complete earnestness. “If there is ever anything else you need...”

Borch smiled. It was still a strange expression on his inhuman face, but recognizable nonetheless. 

“I cannot repay you for this, so I will not cheapen what you have done by attempting to put a price upon it,” he said. “But I can give you something in return which you may yet find worthy: I can tell you to _remember_ this, Geralt of Rivia. Remember who you are beneath the fear and shame. Let this memory shape you, and find a way to speak and feel from _this_ version of you. I think you will find it changes many things in your life.”

Witchers could not weep, but Geralt ducked his chin and took a deep breath at this, feeling tremulous and raw. He knew without Borch having to say so that the dragon meant for him to talk to both Jaskier and Yennefer, and possibly even his child of surprise and his fellow Witchers. So much was clear and simple, now, which had seemed impossible before. 

Cautiously, Geralt approached him a final time. When Borch did not move away, Geralt laid his brow on the great scaled face. 

When Geralt withdrew, Borch seemed to exchange words with Jaskier, too, judging by the silent regard they shared. Then Borch nodded, turning back to his family, and Jaskier nodded as well. Lute in hand, he led the way out of the cave. 

**  
  
Three days passed before Geralt was sober enough to fully understand that Jaskier had been sober _the whole time,_ and that he had not judged Geralt once for any of the things he’d seen Geralt do there. Geralt sat with that surprising knowledge for another full day before he attempted to address it. 

“Thank you for, uh,” he began, fumbling immediately with his words. 

Jaskier seemed to understand that it was something to do with the dragon adventure and smiled, laying an affectionate hand on Geralt’s arm. 

“Oh my dear, it was entirely my pleasure, I assure you. I’ve been to some exclusive parties in my time, believe me--some of the events the rich and famous throw in private, you would not believe. Or maybe you would? But the point is, even with my breadth of experience, that was something new.”

Geralt nodded. It was the _newest_ thing he had ever experienced in his whole long life. 

“Thank you for understanding,” Geralt got out at last, and knew that it was the dregs of magic or chemicals in his system that was allowing him to even say this much. “Most men would not have taken...that...in stride.”

Jaskier laughed. “I’ve always liked to think I’m a superior sort of man, though I didn’t expect to get the pleasure of having it acknowledged by you.”

A silence followed this. Or rather, not a silence, but a period in which they didn’t speak to one another. Jaskier got his lute out and started fumbling his way through composing a ballad about a knight who helped a dragon protect its egg. After so many years side by side, Geralt was intimately familiar with the awkward stages that went into composition. Wrong notes and bad word choices and terrible rhymes. 

The fondness it evoked in him finally drew his next statement out of him. 

“There’s--there’s something I need to tell you,” he confessed at last. He didn’t want to do this, but he had just enough of Borch’s essence left in him to know that he had to. 

“Mm?” Jaskier said, clearly distracted, until he seemed to hear the seriousness of Geralt’s tone and looked over at him. “Yes? What’s on your mind?”

“It’s...it’s about...us,” Geralt mumbled, and wished desperately for the blissful calm and self-confidence he had felt at Borch’s feet. “Look, I’ve known that you want me. I’ve known. But I never...I’m not...”

He trailed off. He knew he could be clever sometimes. When he and Lambert got into a mood, they could riff endlessly off one another in a proper battle of sarcasm. And sometimes in fights with Yennefer Geralt could be quite pointed. But in moments like this, language just abandoned him. 

As usual Jaskier filled the silence. “It’s all right, Geralt. I know you’re not interested in men. What happened with Borch--that was an exceptional case. I won’t take it as a personal rejection.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Geralt grimaced. “I haven’t ever touched you because it’s--it’s dangerous. It’s dangerous for me to get attached to humans in that way.”

“Dangerous?” Jaskier inquired, now perplexed. “What on earth do you mean?”

Haltingly, wincing and mortified and filled with the same well-worn guilt and shame and horror he always felt when he thought about this, Geralt described what had actually happened at Blaviken. For once, Jaskier didn’t interrupt, merely prompting Geralt to keep going with a few clarifying questions. 

“I’m not meant to be around humans,” Geralt concluded at last. “It’s not safe. For anyone, me or them. It’s better if I restrain myself to people who are powerful enough to protect themselves.”

“Like Yennefer?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt nodded. “But Geralt--you have to know that’s bullshit. You’re far too intelligent a man to really believe that. Right?”

Two responses warred in Geralt at this. He could still remember with crystal clarity what he had _known_ to be true while he had been with Borch: that Destiny had touched him, yes, but that not _all_ of its effects had been cruel. Destiny had given him Eskel and Yennefer and Jaskier and even (if he could figure out a way to face Calanthe to offer his services) a child Geralt might someday love.

But Destiny had guided him into Kaer Morhen and Blaviken, too, and he could never forget that. Never allow himself to forget. 

“My life isn’t one that’s safe for humans,” Geralt said at last. 

But at this Jaskier burst into a shout of laughter. Geralt glared at him. 

“Geralt,” he said more seriously a moment later. “Do you honestly mean to tell me that for twenty years now-- _twenty years_ in which I have traveled by your side and seen every awful detail of the life you lead--for twenty years, you have denied yourself my bed and tried to push me away because...what, you fear that you are secretly some terrible pawn who draws humans to their deaths?”

“Don’t mock me, I’m being serious,” Geralt gritted out. 

“So am I!” Jaskier cried, throwing his arms out. “Look--what happened at Blaviken--it was truly terrible. I’m sorry it happened, and I can see how an experience like that would change you or _anyone_ who went through it. But _this?_ Your years with me? This is nothing like that!”

“You say that now--” Geralt started to say, but Jaskier interrupted him. 

“I would have been saying it for _twenty years_ now if I’d had any idea this was a conversation you were having with yourself! Do you honestly think that if we touch each other's pricks I will die because I am just a frail little human?”

At this Jaskier stopped them. He turned Geralt to face him, taking Geralt’s hands in his own. Geralt shifted uncomfortably in the face of Jaskier’s intent gaze and gentle touch. The movement of Geralt's shoulders carried a whiff of his own milk up to him from inside his clothes. 

_Remember this,_ Borch had told him, and Geralt was trying, but even just a few days out it was already so hard. 

“I cannot force you to trust me,” Jaskier said. “And maybe I’m not trustworthy in the way you need. Goodness knows you’ve seen me in enough stupid situations of my own creation. Maybe you need someone steadier than I am in order to feel safe trying your hand with humans again. If that’s the case, I’ll accept that answer. I’m old enough now to understand it. But if you are holding back out some belief that you are--what poisonous and evil? After _twenty years_ at your side, I think I’d have noticed, Geralt. You're a crotchety bastard sometimes, but I think I’d know if you were nothing but the grim hand of Fate.” 

Jaskier looked intently into Geralt’s face. Geralt could not make himself look back. 

“Does Yennefer know about this?” Jaskier asked, and all at once Geralt withdrew his hands and turned away. 

“I haven't told her, no. I don't know what she's seen in my mind.” 

_I have no idea what she does or doesn’t know,_ he thought bitterly to himself. 

“Well, since you insist on continuing your relationship with her despite my ongoing protestation that she is a terrifying force of nature, it behooves you to know that discussing things like this--” Jaskier waved a hand between them, “--is important to the ongoing health of a relationship.”

Geralt bit back the cruel and sarcastic response that wanted to escape him, about how Jaskier’s own relationships were too messy for him to be giving advice. It wasn’t true anyway. Even with Jaskier’s frequent attraction to the unhappily married, his escapades had calmed a great deal in the last twenty years. He was wiser, more circumspect. His amours lasted longer and were based on much more than a pretty face these days. 

“You’re right,” Geralt agreed at last, feeling as if the words were torn out of him. “I guess you’re right. I just...don’t know what to do.”

“Well,” Jaskier chuckled, but gently this time, “that’s why it’s not just you. Give it a few more days, let yourself sober up, and then let’s see if I can work my magic upon you.”

This got a derisive snort from Geralt, but when Jaskier cast an anxious look Geralt’s way, Geralt made himself smile and soften his expression. He wasn’t averse to the idea. He’d seen Jaskier seduce people before, and it had always seemed...nice. To be wanted that way by someone who just wanted to feel good with you. 

“Okay,” Geralt agreed quietly. “Okay. And next time I see Yen...” he murmured, half to himself. 

“Maybe she’ll kill you like I keep worrying,” Jaskier said. But when he saw how this angered Geralt, he too relented. “Or maybe honesty will do you both some good. That would be something to see. You keep insisting there’s someone tender underneath the chaos, and it would be wonderful if you were right.”

Geralt would try to remember how it felt not to be afraid. It was what both he and Yen desperately needed.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “It _would_ be wonderful.”


End file.
